


Too Fast, Too slow

by TheChoas



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Demon, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, angel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChoas/pseuds/TheChoas
Summary: A year has passed since Armageddon't and really, Crowley surprises himself with how ridiculous he is becoming whenever he does as much as look at Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Too Fast, Too slow

It’s still a bit strange knowing that they are getting away with this now. A year has passed since the apocalypse has been averted. Actually, that was 396 days ago, and 4 hours, 42 minutes and 12 seconds if one wants to be exact. But who is counting.

There are two people currently strolling through the same park that both of them have been kidnapped from exactly 395 days, 12 minutes and 58 seconds ago. The same man with the same ice cream stall is there, too, but he doesn’t remember these two men. Not even when back then he thought that he had never seen a couple more different and remarkable in his whole life – but nobody can blame humans for being forgettable. But the demon recognizes him.

“Look, angel,” he points out, “do you recall how those from upstairs have taken me away from you here?”

“Thinking you were me, of course!” the male by his side response, a warm smile spreading on his lips as he reminisces the memory that is now fond even if 12 months ago, it made him shiver in fear.

So many things could have gone wrong for the two of them, they could have been wiped of the surface of this universe in a different way, one that didn’t have anything to do with their origins, and then that would have been it. Yet thankfully to both of their great minds and Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, it had all turned out rather well indeed (Aziraphale still chuckles every time he remembers the shell-shocked expression on Michael’s face when he miracled him a towel).  
Even Crowley smiles but instead of staring at the space where he was been taken to a trip upstairs, he looks right at the man whose body he had inhabited for that plan. The angel is gently shaking his head but the smile is still not fading when he continues to walk as if he is entirely unaware that somebody is watching him overly closely. His white hair is being ruffled by the wind that has picked up throughout the last couple of hours, as does it make his coat flutter behind him like a cloak. He has both hands in the pockets of his dress pants, only so they don’t get cold since night is reaching out its icy fingers over the sky – the dark blue that always comes before the midnight black is already visible there, on the horizon, where the sun has long disappeared. But the day is clinging to Britain, with smooth lines of orange and pinks coloring the sky. Those colors catch in the strands of Aziraphale’s hair and give the fluff the impression that his halo is still where it once used to be. Crowley could just watch him for days.

Of course, he can’t do that. Not when he still has things to do and time to pass and not when he still can’t reach out for the man he longs to have in his arms. If anybody would want to know the truth: he has tried. Sure he has, for years and decades and centuries. Crowley has taken things slow, he has been straight forwards, he has wrapped himself in the poetry and metaphors that his angel always holds so dear in the books he loves and still – he was going too fast for Aziraphale. Those words still ring in Crowley’s ears whenever he thinks about maybe taking another step into their quite complicated relationship.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Seven words that tore his little imaginary world apart after he basically confessed his feelings. Yes, this was in 1967, but even half a century is close to nothing when it comes to counting the years that they have known each other for. The chance that by now Aziraphale has changed his mind is really, really low, especially when one knows him as much as Crowley does. So keeps his distance even that means that he almost walks into a pole of a street light because he is too busy staring.

“Oh dear, please do watch your step!” Aziraphale exclaims as he pulls the startled demon towards himself by the upper arm since there would have only been a sheet of paper that could have separated his nose from the cold metal that he almost kissed.

It is out of reflex that Crowley clutches onto the hand that has kept him from a moment of pain and it only takes a mere second for the demon to feel that tiny bit of skin contact from the tip of his toes to the top of his scalp. He is probably able to count the times that they have actively touched on all of his ten fingers (if he needs even that much), so his reaction is perfectly reasonable. At least he tells himself that.

“It’s alright, angel, I won’t knock myself out,” he grumbles as he lets go of the bright man to take a subtle step back.

Distance is right what he needs, and something to take his busy mind of, so he adjusts his sunglasses and straightens his jacket. His fingers still tremble the slightest bit yet if Aziraphale notices, he doesn’t add anything to it. Instead the angel draws his eyebrows together in his best impression of a worried human, “Are you sure you are alright? You have been rather lost in your own head for the past, well, for the past months actually.”

“Oh please,” Crowley tries to shrug it off with a discarding gesture, “just me adjusting to the new life of not having to lick anybody’s ass in order not to get busted!”

“I suppose it does take some time to realize that we are indeed not fighting for a certain side anymore,” Aziraphale considers as he shifts his gaze towards the sky, probably without even noticing what exactly he is doing. “It is a strange feeling, isn’t it?”

“Strange?” he exclaims, “It’s the most wonderful thing in the world!”

Especially knowing that he wouldn’t have to worry about their future together anymore – friends or anything else. After that, they walk in silence for some minutes and only come to stop on a low metallic fence that separates St. James Park’s lake from the grass and the trails for the visitors right when the first droplets of rain begin to fall. In all of Crowley’s admiration the fact that clouds have gathered over and around them has completely slipped his attention. If the people were even remotely observant, maybe one of them would have noticed that one of the men doesn’t actually get hit by the rain. They would probably wonder why and look around for clues. Only then they would spot the reflection of the two in the surface of the lake where, even if it is made ripply by the steady dripple of raindrops, one can clearly see the white wing that is spread out over the demon’s frame like a feathery umbrella. Like it has been all these millennia ago when the earth was only seven days old, when it rained for the first time, when an angel of the Lord decided to literally take a demon from hell under his wing.

It is close to midnight when they set foot inside Aziraphale’s book store. After it had been burned down and re-build again, the angel had found even more love in those sacred walls with all his adored pages, the overly comfortable furniture. And Crowley – well, after he has been certain that his best friend had been consumed by hellfire only to find him in the body of a woman again – is content wherever he is if only his angel is right by his side. So throughout the last year this has basically become his home, too. He just returns to his own apartment when he needs to water his plants and to yell at them a bit or if he needs something but other than that Crowley spends his time at the book store or its back rooms (or out tempting people into doing just small bad things rather than fucking up a priest’s life or so).

As always, since they have developed a well-practiced routine by now, Aziraphale holds the door open for the demon and closes it behind him. Crowley loses his sunglasses as soon as he hears the lock clicking, indicating that they are alone and that nobody can disturb them anymore. Then he skips right over to the wine rack that has become a neighbour of the sofa and the armchair to find a fitting bottle for tonight. Or, rather than that, the first bottle to begin with. The air is warm around them, giving that Aziraphale always keeps the temperature relatively high since he knows that the demon rather sweats a bit than that he gets as much as goose bumps. So the angel has developed the habit of shrugging off his coat as soon as they are inside – hence the new attire right next to the door that nobody uses except its owner.

“Red or white, angel?” Crowley asks as he pulls out single bottles to examine their labels. He has a favourite already but he wants to see if they are on the same side on this, too. Aziraphale hums as he considers his choices before he makes a decision that turns out to be the right one.

“I think I will prefer red tonight.” “Cuvée it shall be,” the demon muses as he raises the designated booze into the air. Then he sinks into the cushions of the sofa and stretches both arms out to lay them on the backrest. Like this he waits for the angel to come over to him. His unneeded breath catches in his throat as Crowley watches how the white haired man smooths out the wrinkles of his coat only to then undo the buttons that hold the shirt at his wrists together so that he can roll his sleeves up all the way to his elbows.   
Back when everybody was still running around in togas, they have seen plenty of naked skin on the other but nothing out of all the very many years has ever come close to the hellish attractive look that Aziraphale is sporting right now. His waistcoat clings to his body and the golden chain of his pocket watch sways with every step he takes, his shoes make a dull thump as he walks over to his chair and his arms are rippling with hidden strength as he holds himself up on the armrests while he sinks into the seat. He is a principality after all.

Crowley just stares, enraptured, how he has done it the whole evening already. It takes really all of his strength to not let his mouth open and drool all over himself. If the angel only knew what exactly he is doing and how much pain it causes the demon.

“Aren’t you supposed to pour our drinks, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, completely innocent if one believes his tone and the look in his grey eyes. A puppy got nothing on him.

“Ah, yes,” the demon agrees and makes two glasses appear on the small table to his right just when the cork of the wine bottle disappears into thin air. He then gracefully cares for their emotional health as he fills the wine into what are basically goblets to let the evening smooth out properly. Not even a minute later, the same procedure repeats itself and the first bottle is empty. They have always been quick in the beginning.

A comfortable buzz is all they feel after just half an hour – not enough to be considered but sober would be a total lie, too. Aziraphale has abandoned his armchair to sit right next to his friend – also a habit they have become fond of throughout the last year. Oh how much has changed and how even more has stayed the awful same. They are not touching like this. Crowley’s right hand holds onto his glass, hallway empty already again, while his left arm would be wrapped around the angel’s shoulder if he was just bold enough to slip it around him instead of just resting it behind the man’s back. And Aziraphale is sitting a bit tilted on the sofa so that he can easily look at the demon without stretching his neck the whole time. How they have gotten so far, Crowley can only assume. Given the circumstances, their heritages and believes, their standards and character traits, it would have been only right and natural if they had parted ways after the Nopocalypse – just how they have done it for years onwards throughout their journey.

Now, there are no miracles that Aziraphale has to gift the human’s with and no people Crowley has to tempt or seduce. There is no Antichrist to fight off and no Satan or Good coming for them, neither is hell or heaven. So why should they stay together and by each other’s side if not only a couple of times a century to just grab lunch? Not that the answer to that question matters, after all Crowley is content as long as Aziraphale puts up with him. And putting up with him he does, it seems.

“I’m glad that you are here with me,” the angel muses at some point completely out of the blue and so quiet that Crowley wouldn’t have caught it if they had been even three steps apart.

It may be the alcohol gifting him courage or their walk in the park making him maudlin but the demon doesn’t see a reason to not respond honestly. “Not as glad as I am that nobody can take you away from me anymore.”

“That was actually… quite sweet, my dear,” the angel answers with a coy smile taking over his features.

Crowley shrugs as he downs the rest of his wine. “It’s what I am thinking, I don’t care what else it is.” He doesn’t know what devil possesses him when he now actually reaches his free hand out to travel his fingers over the waistcoat that covers the angel’s back, down his spine and up again.

There is a certain look in Aziraphale’s eyes – the same one that he has had when they had said their cheers at the Ritz, when the angel has softly muttered ‘To the world!’. It is so ginger, so pure, just as one would expect from a celestial being that has escaped the heaven but there is not a single being on this earth (or even the whole universe) that would ever cast said look at a demon. Just that is enough to send a tingle down Crowley’s spine.

“I suppose this should be reassuring,” Aziraphale mutters, shivering slightly at just as of a simple thing as this touch even if it is as soft as the feathers that give the angel’s wings their shape. Crowley hums in quiet agreement.

“I suppose.”


End file.
